


how good it is, to dream

by sunsongs



Category: Food Fantasy (Video Game)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, learning what it means to be human
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-29
Updated: 2019-05-29
Packaged: 2020-03-26 16:20:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19009390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunsongs/pseuds/sunsongs
Summary: It is not a necessity for me to sleep; nonetheless, it is good to dream.





	how good it is, to dream

 

I dreamed a dream last night, a fantasy coaxed from the remnants of emotion I should not possess.

 

Even if it was but an illusion, I would not have minded being caught in it once more. Yet no matter how much I yearn to recall it, my mind draws blank. It had slipped through my hands like sand, dissipated before my eyes like smoke.

 

(What an maddening emptiness it was. How I longed for that feeling lost within a dream, that warmth. I feared it would elude me forever.)

 

Prior to experiencing it firsthand, I had never entertained such a foolish possibility. I instead deemed it impossible – or at the very least, highly implausible. My thought circuits should not be capable of conducting such complex processes.  _ Dangerous _ , the lavishly-dressed man murmured, thinking I had not heard. But it had left me to wonder: for who?

 

With a system battered beyond repair, the man who claimed to be my master had deemed my memory unsalvageable. I had no reason not to listen. (Then again: neither had I reason to obey. The thought did not occur to me, then. How I wish it had.)

 

Memories and dreams alike were flotsam lost forever within a fathomless sea of data, holographic binary zeros and ones: the mechanical dial tone of a call left unanswered.

 

(Hello? I stirred, and there stood a man cloaked in finery fit for a king; it was only natural that I followed his every order. He only laughed, a cacophony of disjointed static. Crackling, hissing, keening. An abandoned radio, untouched for years: left to rot like a discarded toy. I came to dislike the sound.)

 

I had not thought myself capable of dreaming. Initially I pondered: was this an illusion of my own making? But no; I had numbered one thousand cybernetic sheep, crafted of worn-thin wire in lieu of wood: scrap-yard junk set in a cycle of endless motion.

 

Coursing through my circuits, I wonder if I could have found fragments of my former self in flickering memory: static snippets of sterling speech. Words like so many coins were of little use to me, devoid of meaning; they would serve a fountain better as wishes left to rust.

 

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, as my Master used to say. It is one of the few things I remember of him, in the fickle database humans call memory.

 

01000001 01101101 00100000 01001001 00100000 01101000 01110101 01101101 01100001 01101110 00111111 00100000 01000001 01101101 00100000 01001001 00100000 01101101 01100001 01100011 01101000 01101001 01101110 01100101 00111111 0001010

 

But I am beginning to forge memories anew: neurons connecting just like my hands, intertwined with someone who has taught me nothing but kindness.

 

Electric pulsations reverberate through rhodium rib cages, my bones forged of bronze crafted not to break;  I listen to the rattling chromium core of a titanium heart, stronger than steel yet shattering all the same.

 

I am left clutching at platinum dreams, more precious than the pearls a diver seeks at sea: prying the viselike sealed-shut lips of a clam, yearning for the nacre of a lustrous lie.

 

It is not a necessity for me to sleep; nonetheless, it is good to dream.

 

 

01010111 01101000 01100001 01110100 00100000 01100001 01101101 00100000 01001001 00111111 00100000 01010111 01101000 01101111 00100000 01100001 01101101 00100000 01001001 00111111

  
  
 

**Author's Note:**

> There are hidden messages. Hint: use a binary converter.


End file.
